Batman Episode 1: The Shadow of the Bat
by Raw Sewage Writings
Summary: For ten years, Bruce Wayne has been away from his home, Gotham City. Now he has returned to fulfill his oath of ridding Gotham of crime and corruption.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The gentle roar of the airliner constantly filled the ears of each of the two-hundred fifteen passengers. The sudden ping of the intercom was a welcomed relief, a sign that the almost fourteen hour flight from Beijing was nearly at an end. Few eyes lifted to the ceiling panel above as the passengers awaited the pilot's voice.

"Good evening folks the time is about six twenty and right now we are making our final approach over Gotham City. In fact if you look out your windows, you'll be able to see our 'Empire Jewel.'" Curiosity and anticipation urged the passengers to press their faces up against the cold ovular panes of the port windows.

Already, the sun had surrendered to the misty night that swallowed the city below like a vapor. It was only by the lights of the towers that outlined every high rise like a 'connect the dots' puzzle that the airline passengers could define the grand metropolis. Gotham City was a mountain of urban development over hundreds of years. In the heart was the peak, a congestion of high rises that gradually sloped as buildings much older and less royal spread out to the edge of the encircling, black ocean. It was a city that threatened to become a world all its own. Gotham sat on a peninsula, distancing itself from the world of the mainland, a geographic definition of snobbery. Yet still it lingered a mere ferry ride northeast of the coastal city, Bludhaven.

The pilot continued to speak over the intercom, relaying the frigid January temperature and even giving instruction to prepare for their landing. The plane descended further through the clouds till finally the wheels touched down on the slick black tarmac of Gotham International Airport. Twenty minutes later, the eager, jetlagged passengers struggled to keep their legs under them, letting the blood flow through again as they stretched out for the first time in fourteen hours.

A mother suddenly stopped and stooped as her infant's tiny knit hat dropped to the floor of the tunnel leading into the terminal. As she stood back up with the hat pinched between the fingers of her free hand like chopsticks, she glanced over her shoulder at a man forced to halt behind her. He was large and rather broad, dressed plainly in dark jeans and a dark windbreaker. His brown hair was long, reaching past his shoulders, contributing to the scruffy visage created by the thin, dark beard that concealed his square jawline.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she courteously said with a forced laugh as she brushed a strand of her blonde hair from her eyes. With a subtle grin, the man nodded as he stepped past her.

"You're fine," he replied gently. The man departed, yet her gaze lingered after him, mesmerized by the striking blue eyes that had briefly for a millisecond met her own hazel gaze.

In the man's hands, he carried a small duffle bag through the airport, not bothering to stop at baggage claim and instead moving straight to the outer doors to stand out on the curb and claim a seat in a taxi. Stepping off the plane into the terminal, he hadn't felt it, not until stepping through the doors of the airport to the chilly Gotham night air did he feel the familiarity. He was home but unfortunately, ten years did little to change the city.

Checking his watch, the time read seven forty nine, the post office was without a doubt closed but that worked to his advantage. The yellow taxi pulled to a stop in front of the building, still lit and available even at night, but completely dead. Extracting the fare from his pocket, the man paid the driver then climbed out of the taxi with his duffle still in his hand. The taxi pulled away down the grey street as the man casually made his way inside. The door inside leading away to the right of the facility was locked for the night but the entire back and side wall of the lobby was filled head to toe with brass doors of various sizes, the smallest at the top grew into four different sizes before reaching the bottom row. The man reached into his pocket and drew a set of keys, selecting a small brass one. He crouched down to the second to last row, a PO Box with the largest size selection. With ease the door opened and a single brown parcel sat in the cave like darkness of the box. The labels were all hand written with stamps written in Chinese characters. The return address was located in Beijing, China and was addressed to David Gray. Gray didn't open the package there, too open to any eyes open wide enough to see him through the post office's windows. He left the building, turning the corner sharply into the narrow alley. Tearing the package open, Gray lifted a single, black duffle bag, slightly bigger than the one he carried with him out of the brown parcel. Stuffing the smaller bag inside the black duffle, Gray slung it over his shoulder and continued his walk down the cold, dark street.

Gray was in the Narrows, a district outside of the grandiose high-rises in the heart of Gotham, named for the cramped, shambles of old brick buildings that resembled the same sophistication of a South American favela. For some time, Gray continued down the sidewalk, passing all manner of old, rickety buildings with dark alleys occupied with discarded refuse both inanimate and not. Any one of these buildings would serve just fine for his uses, but still he kept walking. Gray watched from the corners of his eyes, observing, taking note, absorbing every detail. This was phase one.

Finally he stopped, coming to a four story apartment building, long condemned. No building ever seemed to get torn down in districts that have decayed as far as the Narrows, it was as if no one cared about pruning the lower branches of a magnificent tree, only ever concerned with the crown at the top. Then again, not many, even wrecking crews, would ever wish to be in a place such as this. Gray easily pried the nailed board from the bottom floor window and ducked inside the shadows. He needed no flashlight, as he navigated the old apartment. No one lived there any longer, only the occasional homeless person struggling to escape the chilly night. Gray climbed the stairs that creaked with age under his rather heavy frame. Climbing to the top floor, Gray cautiously felt for a knob on the last door at the end of the corridor. The door hung ajar which he pushed open, the hinges creaked eerily. The room was cold with a draft blowing through the wide open window which offered the most minimal light from the street outside. A couch torn and stained remained in what was once a front room. After having checked each room within the apartment one by one, he threw the duffle down on the couch and unzipped it open, holding a black mask up to see. For a moment, Gray observed it, then turned to the open window. Looking out over the shingled rooftops of the Narrows, far in the distance, the towers glowed in the night like a world apart.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

For much of the month, Gray survived like those around him, spending his days on the street among the people and his nights above them. Dressed fully in black with the mask pulled down over his face, leaving only a sliver open for his eyes, Gray sprinted across the roof then launched across the gap between the next rooftop. Remaining airborne till he was well over the edge, Gray broke the impact with a well-rehearsed roll. He skid to his knees, and remained crouched as he let his breath return to him again, though he could go on for hours straight without feeling winded. He was ready, Phase two had been active for the past few weeks and the payoff was exhilarating. It was a success, the victim was saved, a woman, no older than twenty-one, out late from work attacked on the way to her car. The punk went down fast and easy and Gray was hardly seen. He had been trained well. There were others like it, all similar scenarios; a single victim, preyed upon by one or two low-life thugs. It didn't matter to Gray what their motives were, they all went down the same. Now Gray was ready for a real challenge, a true test of everything he'd worked on for the past ten years. That night, the street answered his challenge. The crash of glass shattering had rung out to him a block down the road. A ringing alarm called out helplessly to the night. Gray crouched on the ledge of the roof next door, taking his time, watching and waiting for his moment. Finally the first of the group emerged from the jewelry. More followed, darkly dressed men hefting duffels loaded with jewels. Gray took note of their weaponry, one had a crowbar and two carried automatic hand guns, the other two seemed to be unarmed, but Gray knew anyone of them could be concealing anything under their jackets and hooded sweatshirts. The small band of burglars turned sharply down the alley to where their '74 Ford LTD awaited them. They were panicking, Gray could hear it in their voices.

"Come on, man, get it open!"

"Will you shut up!" Gray smirked as he waited only moments longer. With a group like this, he would try another weapon other than his fists. He leapt from the edge, reaching out and grappling the fire escape with his hands to the distance and soften his fall. Crouching low, he landed in the midst of the burglars.

"What the!" one of them exclaimed.

"Who's this clown?" another asked snidely. Gray scowled, this wasn't the affect he hoped for. The initial shock seemed to have worn away already and now the largest of the five made his move. Gray saw the twitch of movement as the burglar raised his gun but Gray was faster. Gray cast a shuriken with trained precision. The gun was knocked out of his hands, leaving only one more real threat in the group. Gray lashed out, grabbing the second gunman's hand and twisting it from his grip then following through with a punch. A cry of utter bewilderment sounded behind Gray. He kicked out, knocking the wind out from another burglar. The man with the crowbar made his approach, swinging down hard. Gray caught the bar with one gloved hand then dispatched the burglar with the opposite elbow. From out of nowhere, the fifth burglar lunged at him with a short switchblade. Gray redirected the blade then took him down hard and fast. As one of the burglars crawled, struggling to his feet, his hand rested on the cool metal of one of the discarded handguns. Gray just barely heard the scrape of the metal on the ground as the burglar leveled the gun and fired without a single thought. He felt a stinging, searing bite in his shoulder as the shot met its mark. Gray felt tiny drops of blood splash on his mask. Gritting his teeth, he kicked out behind him with a grunt before the burglar could fire a second shot. He crashed to the ground as the gun clattered away. Gray stood amongst the crumpled, unconscious forms of the burglars as he clutched the wound on his shoulder. He felt his strength slowly give way as the blood leaked through his fingers. Gray pulled off the mask from his bearded face and clumped it, pressing the cloth to his shoulder with as much pressure as he could muster. He slumped heavily against the side of the burglars' Ford as he steadied his breathing. Eyes to the ground, he spotted the dull shine of brass keys on a ring, abandoned in front of the driver's seat door. Scooping the keys in his hand, he fingered the correct one to the Ford. Gray worked the door open then slid into the driver's seat and shut the door. He placed the key into the ignition, ready to turn it but suddenly stopped. Resting his head back on the seat, he sighed deeply. Where could he go? He was bleeding out and needed medical attention. His sanctuary was no good, he couldn't treat this wound himself. Fighting to remain conscious, he weighed his options. He also couldn't risk going to a hospital, too many questions, all of which Gray was far from ready to answer. Yet one option remained. With another heavy sigh he decided, it was finally time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Palisades were the outmost boundary of Gotham. The heavily wooded hills were set in the joint of the peninsula and coastline, nearly fourteen miles from the farthest city limit. The trees were bare and clinging for life in the midwinter chill. A light tore across the black sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. A long, two lane roadway stretched for the full fourteen miles, twisting and turning through the woods until finally approaching a clearing.

There on the crest of a large hill set right on the edge of a cliff looking over the Atlantic Ocean was a single giant mansion. Against the ink black sky, its silhouette of haunting gothic architecture was perfectly symmetrical. The mansion was wider than it was tall, though still stood six stories from the ground.

The inside was just as dead and hollow. In the halls, the storm outside echoed as flashes of lightning lit the darkened corridors. But the eeriest sound did not come from the torrent of the winter night. A bell rang from the main hall and carried throughout the mansion like a call to the dead. A lone, glow of light seeped from an upstairs corridor down the grand, wooden staircase of the main hall. The mansions only resident slowly descended the stairs. He had not yet gone to bed. For whatever reason, he had felt an urge late in the night to stay up longer and indulge on a favorite mystery novel. Once reaching the marbled floor, he glanced over his shoulder at a grandfather clock set against the wall beside an archway leading further into the mansion. 2:15 AM, not even remotely a courteous hour for a respectable house visitor. As he approached the tall, mahogany double doors, he diverted away to a single drawered table topped with a lamp sitting on a dark red cloth cover. Pulling open the drawer, the forty-eight year old man collected the Walther PPK stored inside.

The small, semiautomatic handgun had been his own personal protection pistol for nearly twenty-five years, though he no longer felt the need to wear it, it remained available when his suspicion had seized the nights. In his brisk, proper, English fashion, he approached the door with the PPK held behind his back as he opened the left side door. The storm had intensified as rain now poured from the black sky. Standing hunched at the doorway was a large dark figure.

"May I help you?" he inquired with a prickly tone, obviously perturbed over the late hour. Lightning flashed again as the drenched visitor weakly managed to lift his head.

"Alfred," he groaned with great effort. Everything changed. The butler immediately forgot about the gun in his grasp, letting it clatter to the floor as he reached out to catch the man's teetering form. His stern face softened and sharp grey eyes widened with utter shock.

"Master Wayne!"

Feeling the needle of Alfred's stitching in his shoulder, Bruce Wayne looked about the pristine kitchen of his family's home. Every counter was cleaned spotless, every pot and pan, shining in its respectable place. It was just as Bruce had left it ten years ago. He could only imagine that the rest of Wayne Manor was just as orderly and well-kept as the kitchen having been under the charge of the loyal family butler, Alfred Pennyworth. Not much had been said for the last twenty minutes of Alfred tending to Bruce's wound, but it was a silence that didn't last long.

"So, are you finally going tell me where you've been for all this bloody time?" the butler asked sharply, his stern tone returning.

"Too many places to count," Bruce answered simply. "South America, Russia, Italy, France and just about all over Asia," he listed as if deep in thought. Alfred seemed unfazed as he continued to work.

"Last I knew, you went off to boarding school, finished early then I received a letter saying someday you'd come home. And here you were, trotting all over the globe," he added. "So how long have you been back, I assume from the bullet wound, you didn't just fly in."

"Twenty-seven days," Bruce answered. He felt Alfred pause his work on his shoulder, imagining the look on his face in being told he'd been back for nearly a month. As he cleaned dried blood from Bruce's shoulder with a wet rag, a heavy quiet fell between them. "Well at least you look fit," Alfred observed. Bruce was no longer the scrawny child that the butler remembered from ten years past. With Bruce's black tunic removed, Alfred could see for himself just how large and muscular Bruce had become. It was like nothing Alfred had ever seen except for the sculpted works of renaissance era artists. The twenty-five year old man was nearly unrecognizable, yet much of his facial features resembled greatly that of his father.

"I was training, Alfred, preparing to come back so that I can fulfill my promise." Bruce stood up from the chair and turned to face the man whom had raised him. Alfred could see it in his eyes, determination; an unbreakable, iron forged will. He sighed deeply, realizing that the time had finally come.

"The mission," he said. "Yes of course, Master Bruce." Bruce gathered a clean shirt Alfred had collected for him and pulled it on.

"The letter I sent you eight years ago, the instructions?" he inquired. Alfred suddenly fixed Bruce with a stern look of concern.

"Completed, sir," he answered. "Has been for three years now." As Bruce nodded, Alfred exhaled, changing his tone. "Now, why don't I draw you a nice warm bath and prepare the master bedroom," he offered with a smile and welcoming demeanor as he sidestepped to the door, retaining his proper, English professionalism.

"No, Alfred. Show me the cave," Bruce replied. The butler's warm demeanor sunk away as it all became quite clear. This was no mere phase that his master would grow out of. Nearly twelve years later, and he was still as driven as ever to fulfill the vision of his childhood. Eight years ago when Alfred had read Bruce's instructions for the first time, he had hesitated for some time before putting the plan into action, reluctant to appease the absurdly, emotional demands of a child. But in the end, it was after all Bruce's money, and Alfred, a humble, loyal butler had little more he could do.

"Very well, sir," he answered. Alfred turned away to the door and Bruce followed. As they left the kitchen and entered the main hall, Bruce couldn't help but take it all in. He cast his eyes up and down the vast, bright walls, spanning far above to the vaulted ceiling above. A giant shimmering chandelier hung in the center above the rising grand staircase. But what Bruce truly couldn't resist were the portraits. It'd been so long since he'd seen the face of anyone he knew, let alone a Wayne, no matter the generation. They promoted an identity to him, yet now that he looked at them, that identity seemed obscure and distant. Alfred turned sharply, taking the arched corridor to the left of the staircase. The hall was dark from lack of any light to cast upon the dark cherry wood paneled walls. Alfred opened a door down the hall which Bruce immediately recalled to be the library. It was a very cold room, in both temperature and mood, but it was just as Bruce remembered it. The walls were a deep red, matching the carpet. The book cases stood like black towers, lined up like dominoes in the darkness. The library was a large chamber within the manor, nearly as vast as the ballroom. A second landing of bookshelves ringed the walls on three sides. On the far side, a blue velvet armchair was beside a small round table positioned comfortably in front of a stone fireplace. There hung above the mantel looking over the room like royalty over their kingdom were Bruce's parents. Bruce hadn't seen their faces for ten full years and yet not once did they ever leave his mind. Bruce paused in the middle of the library, staring up at the portrait with eyes that gave nothing away. Yet Alfred, the one man that knew him best, could decipher the longing in the stare of a young boy fighting to be strong.

"Master Bruce?" he called out. To Bruce it was distant like an echo but enough to steal his attention.

"Yes, Alfred?" he inquired. The butler motioned towards an ugly metal slab set in the middle of the back wall. It was a door, identifiable by the handle bolted on top. "Not very secret," Bruce observed skeptically. He approached the door and pushed it open. The heavy metal slab swung away into a cramped, pitch dark room. A brass cage like elevator occupied the majority of the space, leaving only minimal maneuvering room for boarding.

"After you, Master Bruce," Alfred motioned toward the elevator. Bruce swung open the gate like door and stepped onboard the elevator. It was far more stable than it appeared. Alfred closed the gate behind him then activated the elevator by pressing a button on the panel. With an automated creak of machinery, the cage like elevator descended through a shaft of utter darkness. Surrounding the caged elevator was a dark metal lattice barrier. The walls of the shaft were dark and rough like rock.

"I assume this was all done off the books," Bruce asked.

"As per your instructions, sir," Alfred replied. A crew of foreign miners and manufacturers cleared out the cave system and constructed the elevator and walkways.

"And you did this all yourself?" Bruce inquired.

"Mr. Fox lent his hand now and then," the butler replied. The elevator suddenly stopped in a dark room identical to the one above. Replacing the mechanical whine of the elevator were the echoes of a roaring waterfall. Alfred swung open the gate and motioned to Bruce to disembark. Bruce's curiosity took control of his feet as he stepped off the metal of the elevator and onto a natural, hard stone floor. Drawn to the sound of the waterfall, Bruce walked through an opening just and wide enough to fit his form perfectly in the dark cave wall. Standing on a ledge, Bruce looked across a chasm of darkness. "Oh, pardon me, Master Bruce," Alfred begged as he pulled a switch installed into the cave wall inside the elevator room. Somewhere, a generator cracked to life, just barely audible over the roar of the waterfall. One system at a time, lights flickered to life in the dark chasm. Pock marked randomly in the cave walls, lighting fixtures shone down the cavern. A light emitted dimly beside Bruce's foot, indicating the ledge of the outcropping. Bruce subconsciously shuffled away from ledge as he gazed about. A metal, grated staircase reached from the ledge to a hanging circular platform, suspended high above the cavern.

"Impressive," Bruce remarked, seemingly distant as he stepped onto the stairs.

"Thought you might like it, sir," Alfred said as he followed. From the platform, Bruce continued onto a vertical lift as Alfred prattled on about the specifics of the cave and the labor necessary to meet Bruce's instructions. As a means to cleverly avoid suspicion, Alfred had finished the mining operations then allowed a two year buffer before hiring on the manufacturing contractors for the lighting and elevator systems. As Alfred continued on, Bruce found the controls to the lift and descended down the towering track system that spanned from the floor of the cave to the roof. The lift passed by a landing in the cave wall as it descended before finally reaching the next stop. A short walkway lined with floor lights connected the docking of the lift to wide landing of stone set into the wall. As Bruce made his way across, he peered down to the depths below. The light fixtures above shimmered on the surface of the submerged cave floor of the cave. The water below was cold, he knew from first-hand experience. More developments and landings grew from the cave walls below. Stepping onto the landing, he looked about. Tucked in the corner was a large set up of keyboards and monitors. "The computer system you requested," Alfred explained.

"No doubt courtesy of Mr. Fox from Wayne Enterprise," Bruce remarked as he examined it closely. The assortment of screens were pitch black dead. "Is it operable?" Bruce inquired.

"No," Alfred replied. "He was in the process of completing its installment three years ago but I had him cease his efforts."

"Why?" Bruce frowned. Alfred's gaze fell to his feet before resurfacing with newfound confidence in the surety of his decision.

"I began to believe, Sir that you were not coming back. And if you were to, that you would have lost interest in this," Alfred paused, glancing about the cave. "Pursuit of yours." Bruce stared back with a solid gaze, suppressing the first reply that came to mine. Alfred would soon see for himself this was no temporary pursuit.

"Well then it's time to reconnect with Mr. Fox. I need this computer system up and running."

"In the meantime, sir, this system was set up just in case you did come back," Alfred said. The butler stood beside a table set in the middle of the landing. A four screen system was established as a workstation. The capability was limited but for Bruce it was better than nothing.

"It'll suffice," he said as he made his way to the workstation. The screens were plain desktop monitors, all linked together with various keyboards and functions. Alfred watched in dismay as Bruce immediately placed an office chair behind the tables and booted the computer systems.

"Might I now repose my offer of a warm bath and a bed for the night?" he inquired.

"There'll be time for that later, Alfred," Bruce replied with his eyes glued to the green glow of the screens as they awoke. There was work to be done.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 _On January 27th approximately twenty-one thirty, Maroni's Italian Restaurant had been occupied with many known members of the Falcone crime family. According to Falcone's' attorney, they were celebrating a birthday. Other patrons not of the Falcones then placed masks over their faces. Armed with submachine guns, the masked individuals opened fire on the Falcones. An individual dressed in a black-pinstripe suit with a white hat and coat with a black skull-like mask burst into the restaurant with an assault rifle. The individual believed to be the one referred to as Black Mask fired on the Falcones along with his henchmen._

A drop of blood suddenly splashed on the black typing of the case report.

"Damn," Jim grumbled as he sucked on the tip of his thumb. His brand new captain's bars clattered to the table on top of the file.

"I keep telling you, Band-Aids should be included in your 'uniform updating kit." Jim looked up from the bar of the cramped kitchen across to the refrigerator. His seventeen year old daughter reached for a cup from the cupboard.

"What are you still doing up?" Jim inquired, checking his watch.

"I could ask you the same," Barbara responded as she turned on the sink and filled the cup.

"I am updating my uniform, you have a gymnastics final tomorrow," he stated with emphasis. Barbara bobbed her head in a nod while still in mid-sip with the cup to her lips.

"Five o clock sharp," she said as she swung the corner of the kitchen's bar.

"I won't miss it," Jim said, looking into his daughters' blue eyes. He gave a reassuring smile, one that she didn't share. With a skeptical look on her face, Barbara peered over her father's broad shoulder.

"Falcones were hit by 'Black Mask?' Who's Black Mask?" she asked. Gordon quickly flipped the file shut.

"Not for you to worry about," he said.

"I'm a citizen of Gotham aren't I?" she refuted snidely.

"Which is why you've taken self-defense classes. Besides, police work is not your concern," he restated.

"Red belt in Tae Kwan Do, thank you very much," she boasted. "And that's exactly why I should get become a cop!" Jim smirked as he watched his daughter. She had her mothers' face but everything else was his, his ginger hair, his blue eyes, even his poor eye sight. Above all, it seemed that his passions were her own, the effect of opting to live with her father at the start of adolescence.

"Graduate high school first, then we'll talk."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The bed was empty. It couldn't have all been a dream. Indeed as Alfred stepped from the brass caged elevator out onto the metal walkway of the cave, he was reminded that his master Bruce Wayne had in fact returned last night. Over the overwhelming sound of the waterfall, the lift to the second landing was nearly noiseless, yet all of the forty-eight year old butler's focus was wracked on the largely built man sitting behind the screen of the computer system installed in the middle of the floor. As Alfred approached, Bruce still didn't turn away from the screen.

"Master Bruce, it is eight thirty, have you been down here this whole time?" Still glued to the screens, Bruce hummed his affirming reply. "I must insist, sir, that you get some sleep!" Alfred said with astonishment, his tone as solid as his posture. Slowly, Bruce turned away from the computer, sighing as he looked up into Alfred's aging face. Ten years later and Alfred was still the most authoritive figure in his life. He had been Bruce's guardian in every sense of the word.

"I'll sleep when it's over," he said. Alfred gave a frustrated sigh before involuntarily glancing at the computer screen.

"What are you doing?" he inquired as he pushed his glasses in place on the bridge of his nose. Bruce turned back to his work.

"For the last month I've been gathering intelligence," he said. "Undercover, surveillance work, gathering every last bit of information that I can."

"The Roman?" Alfred read.

"Carmine Falcone, head of the Falcone crime family and the biggest crime lord in Gotham," Bruce explained. He owns it all, drugs, weapons, prostitution, laundering, racketeering. He has everyone in his pocket and is virtually untouchable. But Falcone's second," he paused as he selected an image on the screen. "Salvatore Maroni." Alfred leaned in closer, inspecting the mugshot of a grim faced man. His eyes were submerged in dark circles and heavily lidded. His snarl revealed yellowed, gapped teeth. "Maroni is Carmine's right hand man and prospective successor after the death of Falcone's sun, Alberto."

"Do you believe he had anything to do with it?" Alfred inquired, suddenly interested.

"It fits his M.O. I've found that he notably sees to Falcone's shadiest operations. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Maroni is as ambitious as he is impatient. It won't be long before he forces Carmine out himself."

"Wont that leave only one target then?" Alfred asked. Bruce shook his head, already pulling up a second image on his computer.

"No. There's someone else; someone ten times as greedy as Falcone and as dangerous as Maroni. He's known as 'Black Mask'." The surveillance camera's quality was less than pristine but the image was clear enough. In the midst of a bank lobby, a masked figure dressed in a fine pinstripe black suit with a white coat and hat held an assault rifle up against his shoulder.

"Who is he?" Alfred asked with intrigue. Bruce again shook his head as he leaned back in his chair and folded his bulking arms, his sharp determined stare fixed on the image.

"No one knows. But I'm going to find out."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The large, black leather throne sat vacant. The Roman stood over his large oak desk, white knuckled with anger. His immediate circle always knew he was at his boiling point whenever he stood in his office. Carmine Falcone was known for his calm, cool demeanor, a true gentleman gangster. His silver hair was as slick and smoothed as his expensive black Italian suit. His sharp grey eyes, piercing like a blade were heavily bagged. His broad, towering form complimented his graceful yet powerful movements, but held a weight of intimidation to his underlings.

"Tell me again, one more time, just so I know that there hasn't been any mistake," he said with an aged gravelly voice that contradicted his smooth exterior. The two men wearing suits, stood in front of his desk with their hands clasped in front and heads low, neither daring to look the Roman in the eye. One of them gulped, attracting the steel knives of Falcone's glare.

"The truck carrying in the South end shipment was hit. This effectively cuts off our narcotic distribution in Burnley." Falcone nodded slowly as he rounded the corner of his desk, his feet falling silently on the maroon carpet of his office.

"That's what I thought you said. And with our dealers in Park Row and the Narrows all bought out, dead or neutered, you're telling me that we just lost eighty seven percent of drug trade in Gotham." He eyed them both as they exchanged downwards glances at each other. In the rear of the room, a third man lounged on a leather couch, watching with a smug smirk on his grim face. "Let me pose a question, and feel free for either of you to answer this," Falcone snarled. "How is it this, this two-bit wacko, this 'Mask' fellow was able to hit us six times in the last past month? No, no, let me ask an even better question, how was he ever able to hit us once!" he yelled, slamming his fist onto his desk. The two men before him flinched as the third on the couch chuckled to himself. A moment of silence filled the warmly lit office as the Roman fumed to himself. "I want him dead," he finally said. "His family, dead. His friends, dead. His Father, dead. His Mother, dead! Even his frickin dog, dead! I want that mask that he wears hung up on my wall, you got that?" he growled. Again the two men exchanged bashful glances, feeling the pressure of the Roman's glare. The man in the rear stood up from the couch, adjusting the jacket of his grey suit.

"Don Falcone," Maroni said. "This task is obviously a very sensitive matter. You need someone you can trust to get it done," he said, setting up his proposal with masterful tact.

"Someone I can trust huh?" Falcone echoed back with a heavy tone.

"Let me find this 'Black Mask.' I'll destroy his world and bring back that trophy just like you said," he said smoothly. The eyes of the two men lifted from their feet and watched the exchange between the two mobsters. Falcone's gaze drifted their way and for a split second, fatal eye contact was made.

"What are you two standing around for?" he growled. "Get outa my sight! You two should consider yourselves lucky, were this Rome and I was Caesar, you'd be disemboweled and hung by your own entrails! Now scram!" With a final jump of fright, the two men turned and hurried out the door, letting it close behind them with a soft click.

"Don Falcone," Maroni pleaded, attracting the Roman's attention again. "Let me hunt down the son of a b- for you." Slowly, Falcone's head bobbed in agreement.

"Alright, Sally," he said with a crusty voice. "I know you won't let me down." A sneering smile of gapped yellowed teeth cracked on Maroni's grim face.

"You can bank on it." For the next hour, the two men of power lounged in the office to fine Cuban cigars, musing themselves with imaginative methods to torture Black Mask.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The chiming of the doorbell called throughout the mansion. As Alfred walked to the door from across the hallway, he heaved a heavy sigh. He knew exactly whom was at the door and had even timed their arrival right down to the last thirty seconds. He opened the left side of the double doors and stepped aside. The man on the doorstep offered him a halfhearted smile. His dark complexion stood out in the brisk, chilly daylight. The top of his head was bald but his mustache was still thick dark. Clear frameless glasses almost invisibly sat on his nose. The man wore a long brown coat over a sweater vest and bowtie. It'd been nearly three years since Alfred had last seen Lucius Fox and yet it seemed as if it were merely the day before.

"Lucius," Alfred welcomed with a polite nod.

"Al, good to see you," he said as he stepped inside. "Though I must say, I was surprised to get your call, especially when you said it was about that computer." As Alfred closed the door, Lucius gave him a long stare of concern. "I thought you gave up on that."

"It seems I've changed my mind," Alfred replied. The concern on Lucius' face grew even deeper.

"Alfred, I think it's time you came to terms with this."

"Not yet," Alfred said, suppressing a smile as he stared back.

"Alright," Lucius sighed. "Fair enough. Through the library?" he asked, pointing down the hall to one of the closed doors.

As the lift in the cave descended to the second landing, Lucius was dumbstruck. Bruce stood at the end of the walkway with a fond grin on his face. As a child, he'd met Lucius Fox no more than five times, one of which Bruce recalled vividly as the day of his parents' memorial. Fox had hair and less of a gut back then but not much else was different.

"Mr. Fox," Bruce greeted.

"Bruce?" Fox gawked in disbelief. "How long has it been? Where have you been?" he exclaimed.

"It's a long story," Bruce replied. For a moment, Fox just stood at the end of the walkway and stared, the silence between them filled by the rushing of the waterfall below.

"I'm sorry," Fox said. "I only recognized you cause, well for a moment there, I thought I was seeing a ghost. Now I find, it's the son of that ghost." It amazed Fox just how much Bruce had grown, bearing close resemblance to Thomas Wayne, yet there was something so uniquely different about the man before him that he couldn't quite determine. "A little heads up would've been nice," Fox muttered, turning to Alfred.

"I apologize for the secrecy, Mr. Fox," Bruce said. "But it is necessary." Fox gave a cautious, sidelong look to Bruce.

"If you say so." Fox pressed on, stepping onto the hard rock floor of the landing. "So, what do you think of your cave?" he asked, changing the tone of the moment.

"It's exactly what I need," Bruce answered, stepping aside so the man could roam about freely. "But I need that computer operational. How long will that take?" Fox shrugged as he approached the large, dead computer system in the corner.

"I was nearly twelve hours of work away from getting her booted when Al pulled the plug," he explained. "Assuming nothing happened to her between then and the last three years," he added tersely.

"Actually, Mr. Fox, the computer can wait," Bruce said. "I called you down for something else." Fox turned back to Bruce with a puzzled look on his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I've looked into Wayne Enterprise's Research and Development files," Bruce explained. "I'm aware of some canceled government projects that developed into 'prototype' stage." As he spoke, he handed Fox a handwritten list on note paper. "I need access to these items." Fox adjusted his glasses as he looked down the list. As he scanned it with darting eyes, his head slowly shook.

"Impossible. Most of these items are sealed away in archival facilities overseas, one or two of them never made it to 'prototype' stage."

"What about full blueprints and schematics?" Bruce inquired. Fox paused to think.

"Yeah, most likely they're in Archives," he answered then paused again, fixing Bruce with another cautious look. "But why? What's this all for, Bruce?" he asked, waving his hands about the cave. Silently, Alfred stood in the back against the metal railing that edged the landing. His gaze darted to his master, curious to see what course he would choose to take.

"You were a friend of my father's?" Bruce asked.

"As a junior member of the board at Wayne Enterprise, yes I was," Fox replied.

"My father devoted every day of his life in helping people, in trying to support Gotham City," Bruce explained, his eyes drifting downward as his thoughts grew heavy with grief. "This is my way of continuing his work." Alfred continued to watch, his eyes now glued on Lucius' face. The man's expression had obviously softened at mention of Thomas Wayne and with each word spoken by his son, Fox grew less and less defensive. Another long, tense moment passed between the two men as they both seemed to remember the same memory of a great man.

"Well," Fox sighed. "The good news is that two of these items are in fact located on site at Wayne Enterprises. I'll see what I can do." Looking back over the list, Fox wondered to himself just how Bruce intended to put these items to use. The nature of each one however offered a vague image which created a cold dark hole in Fox's gut. The last thing he wanted was to attend the funeral of the third Wayne.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Gordon!" The voice called from above the bullpen floor. Eyes darted back towards one of the occupied cubicles where Captain Jim Gordon stood with an open file in his hand. The heavy timbre of the Commissioner dropped like a weight dead in his path and nothing would remove it till he went to see what the fuss was all about for himself. Groaning as he closed the file, he dropped it on the desk. Gordon adjusted his tie as he made his way to the left wall and climbed the stairs up to the Commissioner's loft office. The second landing within the bullpen chamber was a balcony with access to the single, large office. The brown blinds of the wide office windows were always down yet opened just enough for an occasional peek to the bullpen floor without being noticed, it was a true sign of the shadiness of Gillian Loeb. Gordon opened the door and let it close behind him. Gillian Loeb had sat behind the same desk since before a young Jim Gordon transferred from the Chicago Police Department. Loeb was no cop, he was an unofficial bureaucrat, a politician. He had the figure of a desk rider, not obese, but not fit either. His hairline was nearly gone, leaving only a thin wrap of dark hair around the ears. His beady eyes didn't even look at Gordon as he stood in wait. Hung on the wall behind the Commissioner's desk was a painting of a sad clown, the Commissioner always had a dark, obscure sense of humor. As Gordon glared at the disturbing painting, Loeb finally spoke. "Where are you with this Black Mask guy?" he inquired.

"No credible leads," Gordon reported. "His hit in Maroni's Restaurant was clean, so to speak."

"Well then buckle down on it, I want him found," Loeb retorted, still not looking up from the papers cluttering his desk.

"I do too, sir, but the investigation is going nowhere and as is, the latest escalation of gunrunners is a crucial situation."

"I don't care about a few mooks selling guns in the Narrows, our priority is Black Mask," the Commissioner said definitively. Gordon eyed him through his glasses, clenching his fist at his side to sooth his simmering temper.

"Our priority, sir? Or Carmine Falcone's?" Gordon blurted stiffly. Loeb froze then slowly raised his beady gaze, fixing Gordon sternly.

"What are you saying, Captain?" Gordon clenched back his temper again, now was not the time.

"Nothing, sir," Gordon said through grit teeth. As Loeb continued to issue his orders, Gordon knew he had a long night ahead of him. He checked his watch, four forty-six, he could only hope his daughter would forgive him.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

February seemed to speed by in Wayne Manor. There was hardly a moment of the twenty-four hour day that either Bruce or Alfred wasn't busy at work. In the entire month that he had settled back into his family home, Bruce hardly ever left the workstations established in the caves below ground. Alfred, on the other hand, had become his master's errand runner. Bruce had tirelessly ordered from foreign suppliers all the components he found necessary for the equipment he would construct himself. It was Alfred's job to meet the deliveries in various locations spread throughout Gotham, nothing was ever sent directly to Wayne Manor.

In the first three weeks, Alfred had watched as the empty spaces of the second landing in the cave was filled. Situated off to the left, opposite the still inoperable computer system, were worktables cluttered with building components, encircled by mobile bulletin boards displaying blueprints and schematic readouts, all watermarked with the Wayne Enterprise logo.

The table set along the railing of the landing, adjacent to the walkway displayed equipment that Bruce had dubbed as 'field worthy.' Among them were smoke pellets, shurikens, binoculars, and an assortment of lock picks, tranquilizer darts and a few other items that Alfred had never before seen the likes of.

Along the back of the cave wall, metal tables were lined up, displaying an array of outfits, mostly rugged street clothes and fake wigs and beard prosthetics, all except for one table. Alfred was both puzzled and intrigued once he finally took a closer look at what his master had worn the night he returned to Wayne Manor. The outfit was all black and had an old-world handmade style. The torso of the tunic was made of a hardened leather that was also applied for padding on the elbows and knees of the outfit. The collar was wide and extended to cover the mandible of the wearer and a sturdy, leather hood hung on the back of the tunic's shoulders. For some time, Bruce donned this old-world outfit every night that he left the cave but after one of Lucius Fox's personal deliveries, Bruce retired the outfit indefinitely. Alfred pulled a on the silver chain of his uncle's pocket watch and held it in his palm. Four thirty-seven AM, his master was due back any minute. He stood eagerly by one of the worktables, a medical kit already laid out and ready. Only three times has Bruce returned requiring stitching from what Alfred recognized as knife wounds. Thankfully, he hadn't been shot again since the night he returned. It had been years since Alfred had treated a gunshot wound and that was what scared him, what if he can't save Bruce the next time? As Alfred shuttered, forcing himself to dispel these thoughts from his mind, a the roar of the waterfall met a new contender. Cut into the back wall of the cave, a long, wide tunnel gaped open in the darkness. Alfred stood mere yards away from the cavernous mouth as a the rumbling of a Vincent Black Knight loomed closer and closer. The beam of the headlight suddenly appeared on the cave floor before the motorcycle pulled to an abrupt stop in the middle of the landing. The rider killed the engine with a turn of the key in the dash and swung off the saddle after kicking out the stand. Bruce removed his helmet and threw it to the ground. He was dressed head to toe in black. The suit was a flexible Kevlar fiber weave with extra hardened padding on the knees and elbows much like what he previously had worn. The flat black motorcycle boots worn up to his shins were flexible yet sturdy Over the suit provided by Lucius Fox, Bruce wore a black leather jacket. Over his face, he was a simple ski mask with only a slit opening for his eyes. His gaze was lethally sharp and the contours of his face were that of a scowl.

"I trust your outing was, successful, sir?" Alfred said. Bruce wrenched the mask from his face, revealing his venomous expression.

"Frustrating," he replied through grit teeth. Alfred watched with concern as Bruce made his way to the computer system with heavy steps.

"Seems you made it through the night unscathed," Alfred observed lightly as he followed close behind.

"It's working, Alfred. I can do this, I have the tools, the skill, the edge," he said as he peeled off the leather jacket and tossed it on the seat. He paused and unsecured the black utility belt from his waist, laying it over the seat as he stared at the screen. The three faces of Carmine Falcone, Salvatore Maroni and Black Mask stared back as if taunting him. "But I'm not ready yet."

The ride up the brass elevator was silent as Alfred merely stood back and watched. As the elevator stopped at the top inside the dark, brick room, Bruce swung open the gate and pressed on to the metal door and pushed it open, stepping into the shadowy library lit only by the flames of the fireplace. Behind them, the metal door closed on its own. "I finally know what it is, Alfred," Bruce finally said. "Everything is right except for one problem." His eyes drifted up the wall above the fireplace to the portrait of his parents, hands clasped together as they smiled down on the room. Bruce didn't share in their joy, he never did when he looked at their portrait. "They're not afraid of me," he said. "Like I was, petrified with fear. The kind of fear that changes someone." A somber look fell on Alfred's face as once again the man before him was reduced to nothing more than a young boy.

"What you speak of, Master Bruce, is the fear of uncertainty, the unknown, the fear of what waits out there in the dark. Not unlike the shadows of an alley way, waiting for you and your parents." Alfred's words fell heavily in Bruce's ears. Suddenly the image of his father's smiling face was engulfed by a muzzle flash. He could hear his mother's screams as a second gunshot cracked in the brisk night air, then all was silent. Bruce closed his eyes, wrenching his haunted gaze from the portrait. The silence persisted even in the library. Suddenly, he heard a faint scratching flutter. Bruce opened his eyes and directed his gaze to the source.

"Do you hear that?" Bruce asked. With a puzzled look, Alfred turned around following Bruce's focused gaze. Both of them stared at the metal door straining to listen. Alfred frowned as the noise came to him. Bruce reached out to the metal door and cautiously pushed it wide open. A chittering shriek shattered the quiet of the library as a black shape burst free of the darkness. Alfred weaved aside as it darted past him, straight at Bruce. Instinctively, Bruce ducked, bringing his arms over his head. He felt the rush of wind as the shape pulled up over his head, shooting straight to the ceiling. The shrieking grew more and more fierce as the shape rampantly flew overhead. Bruce slowly stood back up, watching the black shape dart in the shadows overhead. "A bat," he observed, inexplicably mesmerized. Suddenly the bat dove back to the floor, soaring past the two bewildered men straight for the blackness it had emerged. For a moment Both Bruce and Alfred stood gawking at the darkness as the shrieking faded away.

"There were never any bats when the cave was being cleared out," Alfred said over the waterfall as the brass elevator ground to a halt.

"Well it had to of come from somewhere, Alfred," Bruce said as he swung open the gate. Bruce continued on down to the platform to the lift which descended to the main landing. He made his way to one of the work tables, collecting a large hand held flood light. Bruce engaged the light, firing a beam of pure illumination clear up the shadowy cave walls. He centered himself, closing his eyes, closing out the world around him, canceling out the roar of the waterfall from his ears as he focused for one sound. With effort, he found it. The chirping shrieks of a bat. It was above him, right above where his Vincent Black Knight was parked. He opened his eyes shining the flood light, catching the faintest glimpse of a black shape darting through the beam. Bruce went back to the computer, gathering his utility belt and securing it around his waist.

"Sir, why are we chasing this, pest?" Alfred asked from the walkway. Reaching around the back, he retrieved the grapple gun, a device with an upside down 'T' like shape. He gripped the handle and aimed the pinpoint targeting laser at the landing above. He pressed the firing stud with his thumb, feeling the recoil as a cable fired from the enclosed, spool. Giving the line a quick tug to ensure it was secure, he activated the high powered tension retracting motor which yanked him from his feet. Bruce flew straight to the top, clambering over the edge and landing in a rough roll. Alfred cringed as he watched from below. "Master Bruce?" he called out.

"I'm fine, Alfred," Bruce responded. The grapple gun was still a new tool for him but each use was getting better. The cable retracted fully into the spool and he stored the grapple back on his belt. Engaging the floodlight again, Bruce panned across the cave wall of the empty landing. A rather large crack remained open like a sideways mouth hung ajar. From inside the pitch darkness, Bruce heard more shrieks and fluttering. He shined the light directly into the crack. As he lingered, peering inside the high-powered floodlight was suddenly blotted out by a mass of black erupting from the opening. The cloud of shrieks and fluttering, leathery wings engulfed Bruce as a torrent of bats seemed to encircle him. This time, he didn't duck or cower away in fear. Bruce just stood there feeling as calm as ever before in the midst of sheer chaos. The cloud dispersed as the bats explored the cave around them, droves of them settled on the ceiling climbing about freely. Surrounded by bats, claiming their new home, Bruce stood alone on the landing, oblivious to the outbursts from his butler below. Fear was what waited in the darkness and the bat was a creature of darkness, the bat owned the night.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Rubbing his hands together to build up friction, Rizzo blew his warm breath into his palms. So fixated on fighting the chill of late February, his neglectful watch of the street failed to notice the shadow that zipped across the far wall.

"How much longer?" one of the mobsters called out irritably. A pair of men set down a heavy crate inside the delivery truck with a grunt.

"Keep ya pants on, we're nearly done!" one of them shot back as he bounded down the loading ramp of the truck. Rizzo grumbled to himself as he turned back toward the street. The truck was parked outside of a warehouse on the edge of the Industrial District of Gotham City. The road stretched far both left and right. The hour was late and no other vehicles crawled on the slick, black road. The street was eerily silent which set Rizzo even more on edge. It didn't matter to him that there were eight of them, all armed with automatic firearms, they were still exposed, out in the open. Two of the mobsters posted on either side of the wide open doors of the warehouse while Rizzo and another comrade stood watch at the gate. The other four for the last long, numbing six minutes had gone back and forth hefting the weapons crates from the warehouse to the truck. The boss seemed extra adamant that nothing went wrong during the delivery. Rizzo scoffed, if the job was so damn important, why not send more muscle? Suddenly numerous metal canisters clattered on the street around them. The realization was instant but Rizzo was a split second too slow.

"Look out!" he shouted. Plumes of grey smoke burst from the ends of the grenades. Almost instantly, a shroud of smoke engulfed the mobsters. A crate slipped from one of their fingers, dropping a crushing his toes. His cry out was blotted by the tearing rattle of machine gun fire. Rizzo panicked, looking left and right as he raised his HK MP5. Faint flashes of light glowed in the grey smoke. Rizzo fired in the general direction of the muzzle flashes, laying streams of automatic fire as he fumbled in the smoke for any source of cover. All around him, his comrades yelled and cursed as they too scrambled to fend off the advancing machine guns. Over the barrage of gunfire, a car approached, halting abruptly out in front of the gate. The doors opened and three more figures emerged, adding to the advancing machine guns. As the figures pressed inward from all directions, Rizzo could make out dark figures in the smoke. A stream of gunfire strafed in his direction, cutting him down just above the knees. Rizzo dropped to the hard paved ground, screaming in agony. He could feel his blood pooling under him. For a moment, Rizzo just laid there, deafened by the gunfire around him. Straining to stay upright, he dragged himself across the lot until finally he came to the wheel of the truck. To his left, one of his comrades laid dead, his eyes wide open and empty like his mouth, leaking blood. Finally the gunfire ceased, leaving only the ringing in his ears. Rizzo forced his eyes open, finding three men standing over him. Their faces were covered, two with gas masks, the third with the black wooden visage of a skull. Black Mask glared down at him, his military standard M4 rifle set against the shoulder of his long white coat.

"Thanks for doing all the heavy lifting for me," a gruff voice said with the slightest trace of an echo within the mask. He lowered his M4, held out with one hand to Rizzo's head. "Say hi to your boss for me." The rifle fired, giving off an instant crack and flash of the muzzle.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

All in within the space of three hours, 341st street in the Industrial District had burst into chaos, fallen deathly silent and was now abuzz once again. Red and blue lights flashed across the walls of the warehouse from the GCPD squad cars parked on the side of the road. The gate, still wide open was taped off as uniformed police officers went back and forth conducting their investigation. A thick figured man emerged from the warehouse with a clipboard in his hand. His oversized, wrinkled, white shirt hung half tucked under his light brown, leather jacket. Atop his head, he wore a black fedora. He strode across the lot, navigating around the chalk outlined bodies, all punctured repeatedly with bullet holes, the image still shook the newly appointed Detective Harvey Bullock. At the far end of the crime scene, a tall, heavily built man loomed away from the rest. The single ember of his cigarette glowed eerily, giving off the tiny line of smoke from the end. With his black trench coat closed and hands tucked away in the pockets, the bald man stood like a giant column, completely still like a statue. Detective Flass' chiseled appearance was hard for Bullock to get a solid read on the man. From the start, Arnold Flass seemed laid back, eager to show his junior partner the sweet benefits of being a cop in Gotham City. That same day, Bullock learned the most important lesson, never to cross Flass. On the turn of a dime, Flass could just as easily be your crudest menace. Harvey recognized a bully when he saw one, being that Bullock, a cocky defensive lineman in his high school days wasn't the nicest of guys in his youth either.

"I found this manifest inside," Bullock said to Flass as he held up the clipboard for him to see. Flass eyed it with disinterest, his hands still in his coat pockets with no intention move them. "Says here this place housed crates of dress shoes from Belgium," Bullock said skeptically. Flass' gaze snapped to his partner.

"So?" he responded, taking the cigarette from his mouth.

"Based on past reports, isn't that basically, Falcone's code for weapons?"

"Sometimes," Flass said, taking another drag. The boredom on his partner's face was frustrating Bullock, but he knew better than to confront it.

"Well I just did a once over in there and there aint no crates," Bullock continued.

"Couple more guns on the street, big whoop," Flass said. "Nothing new in this town." Flass turned, squinting into the glare of approaching headlights. "Crap," he growled. The driver's door of the maroon 2003 Crown Victoria opened and a man wearing a tan trench coat climbed out of the car. His short cut ginger hair was the same color as the thick mustache on his upper lip. Scruff budded his chiseled jaw, Captain James Gordon was on his ninth sleepless night. Jim approached the yellow police tape drawn across the gate, lifting it and ducking underneath to enter the scene.

"Jim," an officer greeted.

"Stevens," Gordon nodded back. "Let me guess, Black Mask?" he inquired, giving the lot a quick scan.

"Most likely. The place is littered with 5.56 casings like the last hit." Stevens pointed to one of the dead bodies. "That poor bastard there is Rizzo Bernelli, definitely one of Falcone's men."

"Keep that up, Gerard, and you'll make detective yet," Gordon grinned. "Speaking of, who's here?" he inquired. Stevens looked turned around again, his lip curled with distress.

"Flass." Gordon watched from afar, excusing himself with a weary sigh as he approached the two detectives. For weeks, he had been hounded by Commissioner Loeb to hunt down the mysteriously allusive Black Mask. The crime boss had been operating for what was soon to be six years, providing minor, yet violent distractions for the GCPD. As of the last five months, it seemed Black Mask was escalating, becoming bolder in challenging the long time crime lord of Gotham City, the Roman, Carmine Falcone. It was no question to Gordon that Loeb's pressure to shut down Black Mask was influenced by Falcone's payroll, whether it was beneficial for Falcone or not, Gordon also wanted Mask off the streets and was hoping that another crime scene might reveal something to bring him one step closer, but chances were slim with Detective Arnold Flass on the case.

"Flass, what have you got?" Gordon asked sharply. Flass turned his shoulders, glancing back at the Captain. His height and muscular build discredited Gordon's own build but this didn't faze him.

"Pretty cut and dry," Flass said, tossing the cigarette to the ground and smashing it with his shining penny loafers. "Eight vics, hit and run. Shell casings assume the use of automatic weapons." Gordon glanced to Bullock before looking at Flass with a scowl.

"That's it?" he asked hotly. Flass shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Don't really know what you were expecting, Jimbo."

"How about some damn police work!" Gordon exclaimed. He took a breath to cool his temper then looked back at Bullock. "What's that you have there, Detective," he inquired. With an innocent look on his face, the twenty eight year old detective held out the clipboard for Gordon to see.

"Shipping manifest from inside the warehouse," Bullock answered. "Lists some crates of Belgian dress shoes, but I think its weapons." Gordon looked from the manifest to the detective.

"Are they still here?" he inquired.

"Nope," Bullock replied. Gordon looked around the lot, glancing up the outer walls of the warehouse then finally to the ground, noting the black tire marks on the dark grey pavement.

"Tire treads," he observed out loud. "Black Mask's crew must have drove off with them afterwards. He's planning something," Gordon sighed. He gave one more sharp look at Flass before turning away. "We've got to find this guy."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Reaching to his face, Bruce Wayne pulled off the beard prosthetic and set it on the display of the table against the dark cave wall. Of all the thoughts that ran rampantly through his head, he didn't let any of them get to him. The time had finally come, and all was ready. The smoky smell of the barrel fire clung to him from his last outing as David Gray. For weeks, he made his rounds through the slums of Gotham, silently waiting with his ears and eyes wide open. Less than an hour ago, he overheard the word on the street exactly what he had wanted since his last night as a masked vigilante. Bruce made his way to the adjacent corner in the cave, walking right past the old world shinobi shozoku he had worn the night of his return to Wayne Manor. Set in the corner like a shadowy figure, stood the display of the black, full body, Kevlar woven suit. Black, nomex leather gloves were set on the left side of the table adjacent to the stand while the specialized, black boots were set on the right. A folded square of black fabric was set in center with the black utility belt laid flat above it. Bruce looked over the items, a content look on his strong face. It was perfect, it all fit so well as if the image had been in his mind for all the seventeen years he had dreamed of this moment. With his large arms crossed against his white T-shirt, he stood just staring like a collector admiring his vice. A loud shriek sounded from the ceiling of the cave, louder than the nonstop chirping and the roar of the waterfall below. Bruce looked up to find the largest of all the hundreds of bats hanging upside down with its wings folded across its body. Its flat upturned face focused on him with ember eyes that almost glowed in the darkness, large pointed ears twitching, showing it was indeed alive. With another piercing shriek, it opened its wings, spanning eighteen inches long. The slightest hint of a smirk cracked the solid mask of brooding on Bruce's face. He was ready.

TO BE CONTINUED...


End file.
